A BOOK OF ANTIDOTES a book of antidotes by les wade more from the "material studies" series (September - november 2012 , january 2013 ) this book along with pre-face and poems with accidence forms part of a loosely defined trilogy that can (and should) be read in any order. all illustrations are by the author, unless noted otherwise. the author retains all moral rights over this work. press then release press firstname.lastname@example.org this book is dedicated to gillian rose and arthur danto electricity "dies" we still "close the day" my liver is trembling my "warbled" stance my "light" drunk bouncing up and down on the swings of fragonard new line city the swelling forms pulse is to voice as vert is to lips green and sour i excite color we'd all sit around a big table— eight or nine of us— we'd have big discussions and big fights, we'd fight about the surrealists and french culture, bill de kooning talked about his picasso, and gorky talked about his picasso. there was a real hunger, we all sought each other's company and it was practically daily; six out of seven nights of the week we all sat around and talked... a book between day the other of outside of a man singing outside the door hot light game, several columns of drift, surprised by the out-of-tune, the body becomes so fibrous, string anthem, whistle it down, caked with thirst, each throb lasts a minute and soon will fill up an entire day. the transparent elements organized into sguares. saying "thin fine frame" reveals a story, something that wants to be arranged as a table, intuit the black lines, the chambers and hallways return without warning, we will outlast time only by asking the wrong questions. this way it is thought that the scents of the present and how to cling to the body like a thing enclosing fields at play and how the lines hovering over the body this way or that it is clinging to the smoke of the present and the moments where we are counting to ten and how they creep into our field of view twisting this way and that and this way it is a thought, the curve of the smoke, where the outside of the body is always bigger than what our x-ray glasses lead us to believe. jotted, sharp, and afterwords, episodic as the law of averages will allow, for an hour there are only fractions, singeing our hair, the tobacco pattern, the ticking of the man glaring at the cracks in the wall, this is how we calculate the lifespan of every tv show ever. i think of my pictures as dramas; the shapes in the pictures are the performers, they have been created from the need for a group of actors who are able to move dramatically without embarrassment and execute gestures without shame. neither the action nor the actors can be anticipated, or described in advance, they begin as an unknown adventure in an unknown space, it is at the moment of completion that in a flash of recognition, they are seen to have the quantity and function which was intended, ideas and plans that existed in the mind at the start were simply the doorway through which one left the world in which they occur. the great cubist pictures thus transcend and belie the implications of the cubist program. the most important tool the artist fashions through constant practice is faith in his ability to produce miracles when they are needed... hinged the wire in the rose why it must be an emerging present, know a slim sequence of couldn't now and wouldn't wax. left crosscut the light, the skills of sand, a transgressive solidity, light and sand work out the wave, the only dimension we leave is to turn back, event level action. deadpan planet, light columns explode, a science fiction, nervous expectations produced by three seconds of grainy film, asyndeton of "thou art the man" becomes "whatlyou're still here?" bruised armistice between edge and glance, where you are thinking from. fresh putrid nature dusty noise circle sweat a trip down museo drive sunset is only a place 3 inches behind my head already mackin 1 back 'n' forth the night the weather is 50 years old and they are so busy trying to reconstruct the cryogenic era nining the chrome stealthy approach and a room full of sound effects — something like a countdown, a platform, a slogan, under the beach, the pavement, the story gets flatter with every retelling, just seconds away from the page we are smithereened, made of barometer and temperature, slanted blue, stained with light, or prometheus in the dark, storm gadget and clank of appearance, the work of fire, the day. in street is less a location than a state of being in day is less an interval of time than a condition heat and pressure, something happens something, like somewhere else over that part and that part that is a large door leading to old orange, to descend into the lowlands thrown together as texture, as cellular automata, as thread, as mesh hurled and scattered, rattling the cage of air. the hands are always out in front. and i am speaking mimetic, but you're a holiday, shimmying and swerving in no particular time or place, or a place to learn all about magnets and still be spun/unspun every day. the challenge of rearranging, the standing wave, your mouth and out. eliding and allusive, we swerve, spun/unspun, after, and the unspoken, yourself, the unspoken, and after that when we remembered silver glass mind ice and intimate the summer is spent in swimming the rose light plastered in your hair i hold my arms at my side we were building the water all through the spring waiting for the eighth day by their count the weight of a country walk the October rhythm will surprise us spilling symbols all over the flatland when you told me you could no longer remember my name and i was talking no longer than the rain was no longer falling or the romantic abyss we wanted to avoid on shapes: they are unique elements in a unique situation. they are machinations with volition and a passion for stickiness and self-assertion. they move with internal freedom, and without need to conform with or to violate what is probable in the familiar world. they have no direct association with any particular visible experience, but in them one recognizes the principle and passion of living things. they make the path unavoidable. they float in the light, but will always bump into you. they encompass a secret and always smile at one another. the gestures they make open and close, unstoppable with waves. they will talk to you even underwater, and you'll want to throw a window out a door and a door down a sink and the words start grinning horribly and bopping up and down to jumpin jack flash and you'll want to jump up and yell out "look upon the face of unruly life, o death, and despair!" just like you're a pirate. scent of the seven rivers. the hissing sibilants and riot of liquids. the endless of 1. the hot light day when we picture yourself and a something. head-like intersection, x + i. a narrow head in paradise alley, compressing the day into a brilliant blue bird and fluttering in and out and more brilliant interruptions that target the weak geometry of the bars of sunlight, the faces in the dark, the present senses cling to the body, sigh the stain the faces leave when they wake up singing, the blue expresses what the face cannot. and so free the pattern breaking it up into its component parts the modern dance. fascination begins with nausea, drowned in the depths of thing— eating earth, exhaling earth— the book he took that torn a gesture is yes written alongside a guarrel of color we are performing on the page in the absorbent light night i mean, it's only a movie! yes and my other eye hiding in the stories of streets opening to the chasms and windows left on the plains is the way of realization that we must do more than simply affirm where that thing yes is lying there on the page block-like and already pre-formed. in the trumpet of the page the external is to be regiven, and the setting sun. we are caught out in the open places. or counting the page, tap tap tap rain is sleeping underground in the rivers under the road corrugated amsterdam of canals and puddles the ground is the most serious matter they can name, like Wednesday wielding tuesday they shoot on friday imminently physical the large blonde butter cutter the skin of speech to travel a/part the torn whole suddenly a vent as art is, but really isn't just there and the streets are just streets unfinished mud and varnish again and again what the hand burns up "semi-public auto-criticism: the proceedings always had a curious air of unreality, one had a terrible time following what was going on. the assumption was that everyone knew what everyone else meant, but it was never put to the test; no one ever pointed to an object and said, see, that's what i'm talking about (and like or don't like), communication was always verbal, for artists whose first if not final concern is with the visible and the tangible, this custom assumed the proportions of an enormous hole at the center." "the moment we name ourselves, we're dead." gooey id-like response, a nitrogen looking adolescence, carrying your psychology in on a tray. really ? squishy, squishy pipeline, radiant decay by earthlight magnified, or SURFS UP! grabbing asphalt, shocking information, shocking asparagus information into information freshness, calculating it thin, butter fitting, butter science: cotton water from cement, falling money vs. english magnesium, and a temperature about latin. the poverty of lamination, shifting hands against the safeness of the sea. stumbling and mumbling in harmony, in someone's history of taupe, no one gives it to you. take the long view, long pig in lugdunum, long pig in laredo. can you take it? all of it? "this is a small book and it works in ajar." really ? wet before study, not a place, just here, feel the exclamation mark roofless dispersal through inappropriation or deep inattention, all spaces would be inside one another or stretched out side by side in a gonging bright corridor. projecting x-thetics. the architectural bubble, radio face implies projection, grid-like phenomena implies illusion, i like the way words on the page open up space, run/unran. i used to think that writing a poem was a matter of finding a way, or forging a path, now i realize that the poem is always leading you off of whatever path you're on. them and a bald uncle them and a knucklehead them dragging their knuckles over a head one or other primitif (picking up the head stained Galen reddish) they plan [spend] vision end to bit, or he to dead, drawn off and drawn down, all the way down, to the restive colored dawn, they spread attentively in and through the moment of projection, taking their lip thinner home as the basis of memory and to comment, to start their plan to reach, out. beyond the weight of it. their time, how they gonna carry it. nothing is easy direct action; agency; altruism, bioethics; business ethics; congressional ethics; cuboid ethics; lumpy ethics; medical ethics; moronity; pictorial ethics; political— oh forget it! sexual ethics; soggy ethics; assorted ethics; utilitarianism, followed by forensic science and the "laundry industry" nearby terms are: illicit minor; illicit major; immediate image; inference image; recognition; and ignoratio elenchi the return of the son of them and sloppy giant and screech head 2 they got that gray hum flesh tone, they got that cold eye zinc, that famous "thingyness" — branded pleather. mirrored in your step the present attack is coming in by remote control, that is, a system of thought that is always taking something from you to be returned to you so neatly packaged and leaving a little note saying thought is always thinking of you, singing, that is to say, heads are rolling, but people are talking about jigsaw bridges silky puzzles steel crunk uncomfortable celluloid echo plaster sguawk uniprose ice cube bounce dyeing and soaking the color of ground standing in all that cross-eyed traffic flat head or flat nosed our invisible data plan has gone up in smoke but wow! that three-story limousine's a real conversation stopper, not everything strange or unfamiliar is transcendental, throwing out the chunky factoids in this sleepy time realtor universe. "it's the non-social i object to" bertolt brecht to waiter benjamin and the asocial is standing three inches in front of my face, emitting, i mean, it's so carnivalesque! whiskey and peyote! lsd and aristotle the sun is underwater but we are trapped in some sinister-looking laundromat out in highlandtown, clutching our tickets and being made to watch a bootleg dvd of clash of the titans, "oh no! it's the satanic pokemon vs. the iron yuppie!" guess this must be the gritty reboot. and right now two and a half tons of dark matter are passing through my head, but i'm too stupid to do anything about it. one accident leading to another painful breaths distracted glances torrent of moments and tromp of gray footsteps great honking boring programmatic solos played on a cast iron saxophone counting out the sticky flypaper time of crawl oil drip steel slow iridescent isolation cell song that slurping sound we make in homage to surplus value and its discontents: vinyl finished leisure suits the torpor of pompeii the whole world of talking appliances every noise has been used 5 times xeno- chronically tardy my arms unfurled sight is only a blue bird thought is just in rust and the air not only looks pink but feels pink and the eyes are an adventure in blip (and there's something here about the owl of minerva) mala popped international slob month it's always a guestion of boundaries and storms outside my moveable house a stain of wherever you look you're always so long and so layered and the long high licks are seeping through to the other side it's hard to see yourself recording a jobber on the phone trying to find a place where the rain is fashionable and evaporating i went out one morning dry souls are best, the pictures float in music, nothing fits together, philosophy extinguishes fire with water. it's cynical logic glue the page with loop! ave. incomplete and breathing out the tracks it leaves in the street the chasms and the windows found in the woven desert the twisted planes the external is to be regiven a bright angle a single shot do you re-turn a tomorrow? in lode star polychrome madness made become alive where the next word might come from slick tape slow down does my work really invite a stutter? city-in-stereo-feel metal-of-strife city-in-diptych night-of-tyrannical-streaming it works in low-relief carrier waves in low-relief cornered in ice the city in bass tones travels from right to right again the waters-of-strife a star granite always carries a shape night of omnificent streaming the rough replaceable sky i-rubbing to red. the broken distance our bad approach presses on or against the light horizontal we see the ones who carry with granite who curve the hill who stay the shape say there's nothing in the dark not far from home dropping the kalends how we are falling! they will take my island and i will compose soft limits rubbery green stretching and smiling interlinear "interstitial" he said, and broke up laughing and leaping off of a balcony in parallel with the light a primal act of plasticity and a taste the weight of the light the measure of the poem i can set no frame to the butterflies except leonardo's da vinci thin parchment and dawn is like eating a plum their wings uncover apace, or "again" with my "self" since you never ever give me nothing else bone figure, bone fever, emergent wire, the cigarette smoke on the breath, a bone figure on a beach, the figure is never really there, the paint is never really all that plastic, although plasticity is great, bone figure, emergent wire, a feverishness inside, emergent wire, missing winter, yellow you! the open spaces are bending back, almost aluminum, almost young, entering the play of the same room, white freguency hangs loose and damp from the walls of boston, human voices full of phlegm, it went on for years. open yellow to window a sound poets like to fall oh, plumb it! seeking out the paper tare the light container they did not note what they threw away what we still don't know the eye of morning the hand of hunger if the book is in april and i am not screaming thin and eliding in adhesive night mythical nausea cavernous sunsets the edge of your name gives a he to the sea stumbling downstairs and diffusing the day the house is at midnight and i am still starving sullen departures and laborious dreaming my bones are of fool's gold my blood is an echo i am always on fire and then i guess i just am... the eye of morning one hand on the sea (what, did you think i was alone here?) slick tape slowdown, record/retard the voices NON-ART FOR NONE OF IT'S SAKE! black humor : chance meetings "obvious setup" the cold soup of day like linoleum pressed flat and chewing our lips in the linoleum room at wally's cafe embrace of the rubbery light an appearance of happening a person to deflect your pre-war categories your dented narratives only leave you stranded and geometric as the floor a portrait in place of a performance the left front of your hand is the unspoken simultaneous containment and release: look for form as a cat does when she's hunting in the early hours of the morning, moving the head back and forth in the thin gloom, breathing and thinking become so diffuse and counter-intuitive that they no longer exist as such, and instead of a drama of interlocking lines and claustrophobic phrases, the poem exists as a place to fling a gesture against a sound, and then against a wall, how to build with spaces, tearing air. let's get rid of the "meta" in physics— wave is the most dialectical word of ah. we are rendered. a some day painting, even though it's only Wednesday it's ah so clockwise here in the northern hemisphere, a little night music wrapped around our hands, i want to keep the time, the explanations that drown in rain, i heard a violin this morning sleep & symmetry slipping into it her red gold the pliant "against" slowed in the spectrum the sound of sound and sluice me with the photograph gray beat of wings inside it's always so slow on the tongue blue fades to black day and night and two eggs and two other things that don't go together a recording of space in double vision— dream flower dream goop dream smoke deserted memory every book is a diptych cracked echolocation an homage to violins ok, if you're writing about waking up, i must still be dreaming, or making breakfast. a dancer with orphic eggs, slipping on your discourse, what song would say. "i see" is the last look, a moment of understanding, the lengthening road, like a recording, sound and symmetry to spin us out. although he (pollock) wrote to his brother that he had "painted quite a large painting for miss guggenheim's house during the summer," a friend of lee krasner, john little, remembered it differently, little stopped by pollock's studio in january and was told by lee that "jackson's supposed to deliver that mural tomorrow" and "he hasn't even started it." the next day little stopped by the studio again and was told by lee, "you won't believe what happened, jackson finished the painting last night." guggenheim was working in her gallery at the time but sent a truck to collect the mural and deliver it to her home, marcel duchamp and david hare were given the task of installing the work, they quickly realized that it was too big for the space designated by peggy. duchamp asked pollock if he would mind if they cut eight inches off the end of the mural and pollock told them to go ahead. while it was being hung pollock helped himself to peggy's supply of alcohol and it was during that afternoon that he allegedly urinated in guggenheim's fireplace, at least according to guggenheim's memoirs, peggy recalled that jackson kept on ringing her at the gallery to try and get her to come and look at the mural but she told him that she had to remain at the gallery, at one point, according to guggenheim, he walked into a party being given by her roommate, jean connolly, took off his clothes and drunkenly urinated in the fireplace — an event which nobody else recalled witnessing. portrait i embedded in a thick rectangular slab of lucite is a grainy, slightly blurred black-and-white photograph showing a cloud of smoke surrounding what must be the head and upper torso of a figure whose age, gender, ethnicity or even presence is somewhat uncertain, trailing down from this portrait on either side are coils of wire connected to a copy of lewis carroll's alice through the looking glass, members of the viewing public, selected beforehand, are invited to each read a chapter in seguence from the beginning of the book all the way to the end. miraculously, as each chapter comes to a close, the smoke in the photograph reduces in size and density, until, as the reading reaches its conclusion in the final chapter with the metaphysically unanswerable guestion about whose dream the story had really been— alice's or the red king's — nothing is left but a small white shape in the form of a luna moth, meanwhile, in an adjacent room, an angry crowd of barely remembered acquaintances, warty- faced third grade teachers, drunken in-laws, imaginary friends, irate ex-lovers, easily excitable letter-carriers, black-clad fbi informants, and psychotic bosses, some with expressions reminiscent of characters depicted by hieronymous bosch or breughel the elder, others by francis bacon on a bad hair day, dish out the dirt on each reader to tv's rikki lake, who, as these denunciations reach a crescendo, gazes distractedly into space and sadly utters, "there is no sovereign music for our desires." portrait ii the artist dons a form-fitting, skin-tight one-piece suit covered in an array of ultra-miniaturized television cameras and extremely flexible liquid-crystal video monitors, ingeniously configured in such a way that they simultaneously record and display a complete 360 degree view of the entire environment that surrounds him. for the person wearing this suit, whatever is taking place behind his back is seen in real time as happening on his front, and vice-versa, the overall effect of this is to confer a simulation of invisibility upon the artist, as if, looking from any direction or perspective whatsoever, one could see through him to the other side, before the piece begins, members of the audience email the artist with requests about what places they would like to see him visit and what they would like him to do when no one will be able to see him doing it. however, at the opening of the show, the artist, himself only poorly invisible, settles for anonymity, and standing next to a randomly selected art lover, mutters softly "peas and carrots, peas and carrots, peas and carrots" over and over again. portrait iii the street plan and entire urban design of a city will be cast in the form of a human face, the face itself should be modeled after one that is known to have character (a high "tyrannical" brow, whirlpool eyes, an interesting scar, perhaps even a mustache), and its expression should be one of byzantine indifference, or else enigmatic self- absorption. certain problems will have to be overcome, such as the size, shape, and color of the buildings, for example, the effect as seen from several thousand feet overhead as in a passing jet plane will be that of a mosaic, for the inhabitants of the city, everyday will be an adventure in physiognomy, your home may be located somewhere in the ear and the office where you work may be on the left cheek, going out for a night on the town, you might start at the hairline and wind up down around the lower lip. of special interest will be the numerous parks in the bushy eyebrows and the expensive restaurants in the newly renovated nasal section, or the stylish artists' guarter in the dark recesses under the jaw. HISTORICAL SIDEBAR: at this juncture, it may be useful to mention that in the 16th and 17th century the new world (i.e., the americas) was considered to be europe's exotic "other." in fact, for some writers, it almost attained the status of a counter-earth, the baroque equivalent of an exotic bizarro world, where everything was upside- down, inside-out and ripe for the taking, and in this regard, let us not forget that the very word "exotic" is first attested to in 1599 right at the beginning of mercantile capitalism, referring to something imported from a far away country and not native to the place where it is currently located, ripped out of context, a little like allegory, or quotation without the use of quotation marks, "any person, any object, any relationship can mean absolutely anything else, with this possibility a destructive, but just verdict is passed on the profane world..." this theory of allegory was first explained to me years ago by thalia morney who was hiding under the kitchen table at the time, "i'm allegory" she said in a rather bright and cheerful sounding voice, i immediately thought of plato's story about the cave in book 7 of the republic where puppets cast shadows on the cavern walls, but i wasn't certain which one of us was looking at shadows and which one of us was just a puppet, later that evening, right before i went to sleep i remember i was looking at one of my shoes, "i'm all shoe!" it was warbling, a moment of revelation was at hand. the hands are tracking space in huge-room theater on every level the doors are locked one low day in and out barely symboling electric day you will end us ARTS AND ARTY ANTS! (which sounds a little like "audience", nicht wahr?) news of pointillism a monstrous "is" a smashed survey — thickly invoking— iron filter — chunk of blue— point, line, point— unwinding the resemblance systemic process : binary form pale onyx, that borderline necessity, extreme ellipse, history of a dot — visual texture— zero-degree — a field of reduction— monocloned— the after optic— a hollow point — scrummed into the margins — a basic unit— like an atom— ultimately binary— my unlikeness— thickly, invoking a theorem. zigzag vogue to glossy head cons human / with lunar drippings photoslap vampire in zoom-zoom (a consummation) 5 senses : 5 noises going through the motions, a few weeks ago, a bird was seen flying past a mirror, we can no longer be happy positivists. i saw many people today and we realized that my head is all day long today all of it and all today it is together with my head all day the whole circular contraption of it that sits on my head crumbling into little white bits at the very end of the day on my head where i can not see the end of it sitting at the end of my head the container of day this must be spain where the day is is wooden paper railways and days around the world talking with my hands a species in s- pain crumbling into white places when i was alone when i was very fragile saying "s-s-s-s-s-s-s pain" and "ping!" as a kind of surprise at the end in the page cut up or shut up! riddle tone sign thanks to universe thanks to universal instability in another city a place to try at production of another city the second before the second famous five minutes is over, electric start of electrical speed of unconscious opening, a case of accident or incident of carbon and throat and the layered dramatization, wetly reaching out beyond the dark throat carbon gleam, or maybe time to try cherry's insomnia slam. gluck! gluck! gluck! pouring it on flaring the dramatic shake the missing spaces out-of-series shadows he adjacent to a world of things vice-like winter and our stubborn body is defined by position above or behind the book lupine molding to laryngeal funk, a study of empty houses, it functions like a narrow hotel, every possible guest is bumped in endless succession, this could be the beginning of a wonderful travelogue. oh the waves of jelly! oh i mean, the uranium belly somewhere in los angeles! shining on the long con of the unbreathable. the waves of the unbreathable in my ear! a moonwax mosaic on a motorcycle ride shooting a movie like that on my face? with all the tourists doing the instant elsewhere bit. oh glockenspiels, oh trombones, and sudden cut to sleepy oboes, the populace is shapeless with expensive purple stuff, shapeless with constant merging, light entertainment moves the picture. erratic, skin in landscape, a song sheds the number, rerun the zero- time. a red room in the hills, red re-runs on white, smoking asphalt in evening. digging the hand signals, a trigger relationship, i met them at a burning building, we spoke about thresholds, i was very critical about contemporary ruinophilia. of course, entropy can only occur in a closed system, and only colorful steps can unleash the shade of caliban. the house will mark off its harmony, its pale system, the way of the game. what the hand signifies as a long road only to add a definition, a city a hundred miles long but only one or two streets in width, but today we are subdued by the presence of rain and the impending monolog, outwardly down. i am studying an empty hand, you are elbowing the house. embracing the event like a fuse, life dreaming wheat, diagrams warm, obvious and in the way. where today appears the same as today, and we won't see the cars crash. the symmetry in smoke, in stony breath, a little visit, window fear, moving the sun by its parallels, its dots, flowing could be itself as a form of music, release from the mythology of moments. the room of 7 evenings, river sticks and broken legs and after motion, effervescence in the attic. fever of limits, holding a clock in one hand, an orange in the other, torn bits of paper aid this process, "pure" air does not exist, only a glance and"m" or "n" in the same name. lead and oil. swollen materiality, the blur is still in the making, ringing like a bell, older and louder than what will appear before your long going, to look for an exit over the usual instrument, the one who does not leave himself. making statements in the dark, holding the night by its rusty flange, rehearsing the distance, joining the cold, waiting for a signal, the house is for hearing all around you. bird-like synapse, observing chapter 304 of my collisionist manifesto — something with length, and sudden focus on the way space was dripping and all the pan-tones calling, but only blue can be hard or soft. the way a stain comes to an end in a description of struggle, i have crawled through western lands. faded smoke, old smoke, we walk through thinning mondays. standing in recycled rain, smudge on smear is only a technigue. rising at the end, we will never come to rest, a hole torn in the storms outside, curve in the water, but weightless on the beach, the fold will propel you a few inches above, where today appears the same as today, a today in series a dissolution of the senses as today appears dissolving in the same and the definite nature of it moving in a different direction dyeing and soaking the color of ground different from what we thought we were seeing so "not" today i thought as it appears the same as i do. today. i only write a line when i am open to it. i sing lines to the heat, i churn up the darkness when i walk, downward and out. journeys to and from my room, the whole mileau. the whole mispocha. i'm secretly juggling. break it up and get all geo-synchronous, the hard skin of the city sang, a moment of an ex-missing person, not the line you stand to send, a machine for crossing over, or fill in the blank. high noon melt space as fluid theater it will find a performance in the fabric it becomes a message that takes over the hand dented narratives still find me with the folds of a radiator, i don't think i ever left 1936. them rough minutes chewing my clanging history, them rough minutes in all the usual places, every time you step outside. my moment in modernity, "wow, look at all those shoulder pads!" look around and then look surprised, all you'll see is big al's used sushi emporium staring back at you to give a shape with its shiny wave to the long cool radar view, the languid gas mask theater, i want to ring that hand and say "melt! give up the hand in your mouth!" because your hand will only bite me back in the dark of burning brentwood and every inch here is happy flamenco sguawk. and now it's 1956! gluing the mambo step by step, outlining an echo on the day my face stood still and committing all sorts of alliterative errors, embarrassing just to effluoresce. sound and space together, from coast to coast hyperventilating the rubber flex-time interface apparatus inside a spherical roof, misspelling "doom" as "dome", sorry, mr. hegel, but it's disappear or be disappeared. how many missed margins and blunt incursions weigh upon the head of your francis fukuyama action figure in the re-running season just as we are being laid off again? and the radio is asking me "how many giant shiny blue pyramids can you see standing on the corner of highland and exterior avenue opening the refrigerator door i'd say the answer is "mustard" or "medical systems banking law management?" broken puppet money expressed in poor planning, xylophoning instead of coughing, and waiting for a call, the broken money provides the edge but "fungible" just sounds soggy, activate the room, eyes to kill the boss ... "keep him in circulation all the way to the edge" always happening under glass your glass eye breaking the light through the door, in the space left open by the open window was saved these priorities. the radio face is telling me that the sea will rise to meet us and that the sun is still underwater and the mars market is full of airplane and welcomes your hunger o, i am traveling along the nodes in grainy winter with the houses piling up and the bridges blurred doing the whole library drive-by peace-of-westphalia thing you know the divide and decompose strategy nuit /jour but "black plastic" holding it with both hands or both/and sign the stain the mouth is finding the black plastic of the disc iron music salt music asphalt binocular lead some glyphs in glass steel smoke filming evening sound syndrome colored low-rez crashing into an arrangement in slow moving dark inscription, the phonographic story circling the edge and spilling over the moment when i was remembering to ask if the poem i was writing was somehow supposed to leap off the page and wreak it's vengeance on the world i was living in or just sneak up behind me and bite me in the ass and noticed the dust and the light even mud and hunks of skin on the spines and covers and pages of the books in my room lined up in their shelves and a faint humming sound whose source i could not identify. movement in parallel the layered look deep enjambement somewhere beneath Charles street we all come from somewhere else, baudelaire had more room, clyfford still had more paint, i am starting with nothing,trespassing the brittle epistemologies. or, skewed, regardless, i pick up my big black shoe and put it on the accelerator, the motion's in the body and the bodies in commotion. one word is not sufficient. garnicht and not "unvarnished", the desert air is white— mallarme's swan, when peace came, all the little magazines folded, can you stand the setting west? a characteristic to catch her, when they to find it and jump to find the sea, finally to repeat, like looking for a way out of the way out. rhododactylus disturbs the leaves of gold. i or moi, just shouting, staring at the loop, the view cries blonde grace of the horizon, blondie thing fires a gun. a sharp silhouette on the back, to sleep and 2000 hours later to prepare a group to accept that only all sides have been already and everything is ready to fight, wailing through dimension, a sharp silhouette on the back and the plain fires the gold loop fall, o and i, o and imoi, just shout, the flashing of the world is hungry arriving. listen! read phonetically, read diagonally, view distributed, the curse of hello, a view distracted, this is the only name i shall take part of to another city, let the horizon wash it away, the flash on the horizon, the missing line, no rolling power in me will stop the wire in the verse, enter a zone, interrupt all document. i'd rather be contingent than claustrophobic, this is not a manifesto. "for him, abstract art meant, finally, not abstracting from experience, but making experience over through a protracted series of connected efforts; a sketch was an event which led to another, not a draft to be perfected, for him, as for the action painters, the canvas was not a surface upon which to present an image, but a "mind" through which the artist discovers, by means of manual and mental hypotheses, signs of what he is, or might become, to this mind, gorky brought the accumulations of the hand that reveal him to being in fact the artist he had begun by inventing." this is not a historical sidebar, it is a garden in socchi, where the plow is singing to the flowery mill, unlearning the calendar year after year, the limit is the unattainable. horridus originally just meant shaggy so right now i'm saying llama shoon la machine or fish of the flesh the centipede is not short of enemies and a yeti's boiling point is? like one step into the knowledge noisy oxygen invisible motor exploding the inevitable the sheen on all the animalecules burning the sound of burning will bracket all wobbly elegies tonight the sun is cut in two i like the cup of coffee to be precise there's only slow going in the wrinkled air and america is waiting look to this day intuit the black lines 10,000 frames a minute we work at no beginning, the biosphere at evening, and evelyn, already on the horizon what the sun would leave in the crumpled clouds and sudden realization that i've already left out so much few quotes like a photo album" "i have never in my life seen a straight line." robert delauney. my fascination with images that do not "image"— a poetry of strong contrasts. "during my first months in new york there were many paris painters here, at first the surrealist groups seemed to have real strength, but little by little they began to break up. it was hard to see one another in new york. the cafe life was lacking... as a result in new york we had artists but not art. art... is to a great degree a product of [artists] exchange of ideas... there is more loneliness — more isolation among artists here than in france." max ernst. i'm adding this quote here because someone once told me that the reason why waiter benjamin never joined his friends from the frankfurt school in exile in america is simply that, "he didn't want to be laughed at for being the last european." the quote about the social interaction of artists at the waldorf cafeteria is taken from philip pavia's reminiscences about the art scene in new york in the mid 1940s and can be found in black angel: a life ofarshile gorky by nouritza matossian. the quote about pictures as dramas as well as the opening statement on the nature of shapes and the interesting observation that the unfamiliar need not always be the exotic or the faraway is taken from mark rothko's essay "the romantics were prompted" published in possibilities, a journal edited by robert motherwell. "semi-public auto-criticism" a rather pithy comment made by thomas hess about the way in which the first generation of abstract expressionists tended to view conversation as a verbal and highly subjective counterpart of their painting practice, the rest of the quote is taken from robert goldwater's doubtless ironically titled article article "everyone knew what everyone else meant," it is, no. 4. in point of fact, when asked whether there was indeed a community that existed among abstract expressionist artists, and what term, if any, could be used to classify them as a group, willem de kooning replied, "it is disastrous to name ourselves." the comment made by brecht can be found in the essay "conversations with brecht" by waiter benjamin. heraclitus tell us that a beam of light is a dry soul, but adds that in hades, "souls smell." the anecdote concerning jackson pollock can be found at : http://warholstars.org/abstractexpressionism/timeline/abstractexpress ionism44.html peas and carrots, in movies, extras are told to mutter this phrase to give the effect that a conversation is taking place in the background of a scene, other phrases include "rhubarb rutabaga, watermelon cantaloupe, watermelon cantaloupe." in everyday parlance, the phrase "carrots and peas" can mean "i love you." waiter benjamin's remarks about the nature of allegory are taken from the origin of german tragic drama. "the desert air is white— mallarme's swan" is an observation made by robert motherwell on the grave of a miner in arizona, but ripped out of context by me. garnicht is yiddish and means absolutely nothing, rhoododactylus is a famous homeric epithet that sounds so much better in greek. the comments about what abstract art finally signified for arshille gorky are taken from harold rosenberg's arshille gorky: the man , the time, the idea, i've always found those remarks, and indeed, that whole book, to be very illuminating, and also very moving. i think i'll let lew welch have the last word: "you need the chops, on the one hand, you have all this practice behind you. musicians report this too. you finally get to a point where you've got all the machinery and you throw out all the structures you've learned — and the point of art is to make new structures, not copy old ones."